


The Snow Started Falling

by itsallaboutzarry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Zayn, Don't Judge Me, M/M, Porn with maybe a little plot, blood drive, christmas eve and morning, only passing mentions of Liam and Niall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3680025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutzarry/pseuds/itsallaboutzarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then the snow started falling<br/>We were stuck out in your car<br/>You were rubbing both of my hands<br/>Chewing on a candy bar</p><p>(or, the one where Zayn and Harry happen to meet and it takes them about two to three hours to fall into bed together)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Snow Started Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Leave it to me to write a Christmas fic in April. Like, what?  
> This is 'inspired' (if I use the word inspired very freely), by Bon Iver's song Blood Bank, after which this fic also got the title and summary from. The location is from Bon Iver's song Wisconsin, because I am also apparently completely unoriginal. And since I have never been to America, not to mention Wisconsin, I did my best at googling the shit out of Madison, but you know, street-view only got me so far, so I apologize for any inaccuracies.  
> It's mentioned in the tags, but just to be sure, I happened to include a blood drive in this fic (staying true to Blood Bank), so warning for mentions of blood.
> 
> I know nothing and I only own my words. That's it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Zayn isn't depressed as much as he's lonely. But he isn't lonely either. Zayn has a family, a mother he knows made him the man he is today – caring, thoughtful, respectful. A father with a strong hand, strict set of rules and a soft spot in his heart for his children. His three sisters made his and his parents' lives interesting and never boring, worrying them with boyfriends and school, but always managing to get away with everything they set their minds to – like true Malik's. Zayn's best friend and confidant, Liam, although painfully unspontaneous and perfectly obsessed with _Batman_ , always has Zayn's back – no matter what, and is a part of his close-nit family. So Zayn isn't necessarily depressed or even lonely, because he has his family and his friends. He has his job, uneventful as it might be, it's been good enough for years. Zayn didn't think that a degree in design would lead him to manage an art gallery where he admires and evaluates, hangs on walls in neat and straight lines works by talented artists – other artists that aren't him, works that he didn't do, because he never really paints anymore, doesn't have the time to work on his stuff –, but he really does love working at the State Street Gallery.

It's December 24th, the happiest and most joyful day of the years, a day everybody is huddled in their living rooms with their families, the people they love, to celebrate themselves and those around them. It's a day when almost everybody belongs, even his family, because the girls love Christmas, especially the receiving gifts part of it. And every Malik worth mentioning is probably gathered in their house, the too small yet just big enough house that Zayn grew up in, the one he moved out of because it was time.

Every Malik, except Zayn. This year, Zayn thought the aspect of celebrating Christmas by himself was appealing enough to try and see how it goes. And it's going great. He just about finished with everything he didn't really have to do in the gallery on the day before Christmas. It's almost five o'clock, the sun no longer present in the clear Wisconsin night sky and Zayn's standing at the bus stop. He was supposed to finish before three, but he somehow completely immersed himself in emails and confusing paperwork he needs to sort until New Year's, when the year's final exhibition is scheduled. So now it's five o'clock and Zayn's late.

Christmas is about giving, rather then receiving and opening ribboned boxes waiting for you underneath the tree – or at least that's how Zayn sees it. It's about being the best you you can be, about selflessly searching for a special something to give to those closest to him. It's about the big dinner that's probably already begun, about the smell of spices, chicken and naan Trisha always makes – cinnamon finding its way to hover in the air for days after. His sisters are all wearing their best dresses, Safaa's face painted with the make up she's still too young for and Doniya itching to finally be able to go out with her new boyfriend – Zayn can practically picture it. Christmas is about family, love and listening to Yeser's speech he makes every year, with his glass of water in hand, proudly puffing out his chest as he talks about his children. This year, Zayn doubts he's gonna get praised like he did last, the year he was still living at home, the year before he moved to Madison with Liam to be his own person, celebrate Christmas with his own family. It sounded ridiculous when he thought about it then, an eager boy filled with inspiration and drive to make great art, and it sounds ridiculous now, as he's shivering, waiting for his bus. But that's Christmas.

Liam's with his girlfriend, said he was gonna cook her dinner and try to not give her food poisoning as a special present, which Zayn is happy about. He's happy Liam came out of his shell in Madison and went to talk to the pretty girl at the end of the bar four months ago. Zayn's happy they hit it off and are now planning on moving in together, even if Liam made an excuse about only doing it because it'll cut his and Sophia's living expenses in half – like Zayn needed to hear an excuse in the first place. Zayn's happy that Liam's happy, but it meant having an open window on the allegedly most joyful day of the year, making it so that he was about to be alone, on Christmas, in a town he moved to five moths ago. So Zayn wasn't exactly jumping from joy.

The bus finally came. There were fliers all over town about the Madison Holiday Blood drive, advertising that the best gift a person could give for Christmas was blood. And granted, the wording was a bit iffy, but the cause was still good and selfless, just like a good gift is supposed to be. Last week, when Liam told him about the dinner and romantic walk around the beautiful Madison town centre he was planning for Sophia, Zayn happened to stumble across one of those unfortunate posters, campaigning for people to donate blood on Christmas Eve, and why not? Even with his upstairs neighbour and landlord, 60 something Maria, kindly offering to keep him company and cook him dinner, Zayn had declined and decided that he'd rather do something good for once – something to make his father proud.

The bus isn't as full as Zayn thought it was gonna be, but then he's again reminded that it's not just any day of the week, so it's no wonder people aren't going around doing what they need to at five o'clock on a holiday. It's not a long drive. They pass Brittingham Park, empty and bare with winter's prerogative to strip nature to its skeletal core, as the bus turns onto the 151.

The blood drive is held in the Exhibition Hall at the Alliant Energy Center which isn't the shortest of walks from where the bus dropped him off, but Zayn doesn't mind. Madison is lively this time of year, its residents more than used to the harsh winters and stacks of snow. This year though, there is no snow, not yet. Zayn makes a left turn and remembers hearing that it should've started snowing last week, but it's better like this any way, because he can see where he's going and he doesn't have to put on his heavy boots just yet. He's wrapped in a thick black coat, another layer of jumper underneath. The jeans he has on aren't doing much to keep him warm, but he thinks that if he just walks a little faster, he should be fine. It's so calm in this part of town, it would be eerie if he didn't already hear the commotion of people bustling in and out of the centre a good half mile away.

//

He's donated blood twice before – once at school and once when he happened to stumble upon a different drive when he and Liam went out for lunch one morning – so he's not completely new to the forms, the ones where he has to write down his history and check the boxes that comply to his health and life choices up till now. Zayn's not allergic to anything, doesn't have asthma and has never had a blood transfusion. The 'if you are a man answer the next questions' part is still uncomfortable though, but not as much as talking to the doctor after.

“No,” Zayn answers again with a firm shake of his head, when this time she asks if he's ever had an STD.

“How many male sexual partners have you had?” she barrels on, undeterred by his sharp responses.

“Two,” he says it with a nod, quickly, to end it faster.

“Two?” It's like she doesn't believe him, but it has only ever been two.

“Yap.”

After he assures her that all of his sexual experiences with those two male partners have been very safe, with his face burning up by that point, she lets him go and points him at the next station.

This one's faster, because they only take a sample of his blood to test for any blood transmitted diseases, most importantly the countless STDs, but Zayn's not worried – maybe a little, but that's normal he guesses.

“All done,” the nurse says kindly. “You can go wait in the hallway for your turn.”

It's all rather well organized for such a big venue. You come in, fill out the forms, talk to the doctor, get checked and off you go. So now that he's done with all the necessary bureaucracy, Zayn does as he's told, sitting in the only empty chair in the hallway, waiting his turn.

Zayn's seen a couple of posters, a billboard and more than a few fliers around town, but there were no ads running on the tv and he didn't hear anyone explicitly talk about the drive, so the turn out from what he can see is pretty amazing – especially since it's a holiday. He doesn't know anyone there, which, he didn't expect to see a co-worker or his favourite barista from the coffee shop opposite his gallery, but he thought he was gonna recognize a face or two, have trouble placing this or that person. Most of the others sitting next to him are happily eating sandwiches and muffins, or drinking their apple boxes – which is to be expected too, since the drive closes in less than half an hour because he was late – so he's one of the last people there to actually give blood. As his last and first name are called by a young guy two heads taller than him, Zayn wonders if there'll be any muffins left.

 

“Take a seat there please,” he's instructed by the nurse pointing to an empty chair at the far end of the room.

“Sure.” He's not nervous because there's no reason to be nervous. Zayn's given blood before, so he has a pretty good idea of just how huge the needle is and he's not even afraid of needles, so that won't be a problem, but his palms are sweating and he can feel his heartbeat all of a sudden.

“Okay, here we go.” The guy takes a cotton pad and soaks it in some reeking fluid. “Just gonna disinfect your skin.”

He's got big hands and calloused skin, Zayn can feel his fingers on his elbow, but the nurse is gentle and careful, not too harsh. He has short brown hair swooped to the side and it looks soft enough that Zayn wants to run his fingers through it, feel if it's as soft as it looks. Zayn wonders how the nurse would react if he reached over and tucked a strand behind his ear.

“Done this before?” the nurse asks. He's got a lovely smile too.

“Yeah. This is my third time.” It's ridiculous, but Zayn feels his head ducking down with an easy smile of his own as the guy chuckles.

“Look at you, good Samaritan.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Zayn's still smiling, following the guy's every move as he reaches behind him and brings back a paper and plastic baggie.

“This is gonna sting a little,” he warns Zayn and looks up at him, smiles again and fuck. Zayn scoots himself up on the chair and makes a fist as instructed, the small strap already at his bicep. “And... that's it.”

Zayn eyes his arm.“Great.”

“Oh, here,” Zayn's too transfixed with his arm to look up at what the guy's holding. “You can squeeze this.”

It's a small rubber ball and, okay. “Thanks.” It's not half bad – better than squeezing air.

“You're welcome,” the guy smiles again and doesn't avert his eyes. It's just a smile, Zayn has to remind himself. It's easy though, to fall for that, for the kind eyes and a polite smile that reaches the guy's electric blue eyes. “I'm gonna step out for a minute, but if you need anything, you can ask any of the other nurses.”

Zayn nods, his smile fading. “Will do.”

It's as Zayn leans back fully, laying his head against the stretched out chair and slowly closes his eyes to relax and not think about how he's losing important bodily fluids that he hears a snort coming from next to him. He ignores it. Zayn's not one to be rude, far from it, but he can't quite make himself stop changing the image of the nurse in his head, playing out what could've happened if the guy would've stayed. Zayn would've probably blushed in about two seconds, because he knows himself enough. Then he'd try to come off as shy, maybe, if the guy would've been into that, or he could've come on stronger, maybe place a hand on the guy's shoulder just to have that one point of contact again – an intentional contact instead of mandatory. He really did have big hands.

“If you don't get his number by the end of this, I'm calling dibs.”

“What?” Zayn opens his eyes with a frown to see some guy smiling at him from the chair left of his.

“I said I'm calling dibs,” the guy explains easily, undeterred by Zayn's clear blissfulness.

Zayn blinks again and shakes his head a little. What's with cute guys smiling at him today? “Not stopping you.”

The guy smiles wider. “I'm Harry.”

“Zayn,” he nods.

“Nice to meet you Zayn,” Harry continues, brushing his curls off of his forehead with his free hand – they fall back as soon as he does it. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can, but I might not answer.” Zayn doesn't want to come off as rude, but he also doesn't want to come of as sluttly and begging for it – those two partners weren't as recent as he'd like to think. This perfect stranger doesn't look threatening and he's not really giving Zayn a reason to not cooperate in whatever he'd like to achieve in asking though. It doesn't hurt that he's cute either – cuter than the nurse with the big hands.

“Would you mind talking to me for a bit?” Harry blushes a little, bites the inside of his cheek and almost shrugs. “It's just that, my friend, Niall? He should've been here, but he had this thing, so now I'm alone, because I didn't just want to not come, you know? 'Cause it's still a good thing to do. And so I'm here, but I'm scared of needles a little and I really don't want to turn my head and you just happen to be here, so I guess I'm wondering if you'd like to talk for a bit? To like, distract me?”

In the ten minutes Harry needed to say all that, talking slow and patiently, careful not to miss a single word and taking his time, motioning with his hand as he did, his fingers spreading out each in its own direction like they had a mind of their own, Zayn wasn't really listening. He was more focused on how Harry's lips shaped around words, the long vowels and thick consonants pronounced almost perfectly – whatever that even means. Harry's lips were thin and more pink than red, sticking out as if he was trying to reach for something with his mouth while talking, like Zayn was feeding him grapes, one by one with languid fingers and steady hands. Harry was probably doing so unconsciously, just the way he talked, but it didn't make Zayn's palms sweat any less.

“So?” Harry's smiling again, crossing his ankles, like he knows what Zayn's answer is going to be. “What do you say?”

“Sure,” Zayn says too fast and shrugs to hide it. “Why not.” It's been a while since Zayn's had the chance to talk about something besides art, comic books or Sophia, so this should be a nice change of pace – if he plays his cards right. “What do you wanna talk about?”

“Well,” Harry already has an idea apparently, judging by almost falling out of his chair as he tries to move his body more on his side so that he'd be facing Zayn better, but keeping in mind that his arm has to stay put. “I was thinking. It's such a nice thing to do, you know? To take the time to give blood?”

“It is yeah,” Zayn agrees, waiting for Harry to get to the point, but he wouldn't be bothered if he never gets there, just keeps talking until someone shuts him up. It's weird and out of character.

“So a lot of people have donated today and they still haven't moved some of the bags from the desk there,” Harry points behind Zayn with his chin, making Zayn turn around and see the twenty something bags of clear red liquid. “And before the nurse left, I was trying to guess who the bag belongs to. Like what they are like and what their names were. It's fun.”

It's definitely weird, Zayn has to acknowledge that. Harry's wearing a shirt that's too sheer for December, with silly flower patches over his chest and Zayn can spot the hat that just has to be Harry's on the rack of jackets where Zayn's is too. He's smiling and Zayn has the distinct urge to dip his tongue in Harry's dimple to see if it would taste differently before he had the chance to taste Harry's mouth as well – see if his lips tasted as much as they looked like cranberries.

The sudden feeling of fleeing is overwhelming his head, but Zayn can't quite turn back around now, not since he started thinking what the name of the person that the first bag belongs to is, to distract himself. Mike? Michael? Michelle?

“Okay, I'm up for it,” Zayn agrees, actually going along with this grotesque game. “The first one from the left is Mitchell. He works in a bank I'd say. No wife, no kids. Maybe has a cat, but definitely no dog.”

“A banker?” Harry wrinkles his nose just as Zayn looks at him. “You couldn't find a better job for Mitchell? And come one, give him a girlfriend at least.”

“I can't help if that's his job, Harry, it's not like I choose it for him,” Zayn shakes his head in all seriousness, though it's hard to keep from smiling at the way Harry's eyes light up and his lips purse. “And he's not ready for a serious relationship yet.”

//

By the time the nurse comes back to free them both, thanking them for donating their blood and time for a good cause, Zayn's stomach hurts so badly from laughing, he's having problems with breathing.

“I'm really gonna miss Rachel,” Harry pouts in mock sadness, clutching at his shirt as if he's just parted from a life long friend. “She had such an amazing life.”

“She has Joey,” Zayn snickers as they walk out together, pulling on their jackets. The place is almost completely empty by now, just him and Harry, a couple other people lurking around and nurses rushing, clearing the tables and gathering the notes and viles they had collected during the day. “He's gonna take care of her, don't worry.”

He doesn't realize he's doing it, until he's already placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, squeezing as if reassuring him. But Harry doesn't move away, just goes to put his hat back on, so there's that. It's as they're both walking to where the food is and pick two muffins each, an apple box for Harry and a water for Zayn, heading out that Zayn can feel his heartbeat again.

Zayn's never had so much fun with someone he's just met, not barely half an hour ago. Usually, it takes some time for Zayn to get comfortable enough to be able to talk with someone new, to warm up to a person so that he's able to make coherent sentences of more than three to four words come out of his mouth. He mostly reserves himself to nodding or shaking his head, and that's if he's known the person for at least an hour or two. Maybe it's Madison, the new job he has which requires Zayn to mingle and make new contacts at every showing they have, openly talk to artist about their works, because he actually likes most of the stuff hanging on their walls. It might be because he moved somewhere new where he really only knows one person and is now being pushed out of him narrow comfort-zone to make new acquaintances if not friends, if he was to still be considered as a functioning member of society. But it might as well just be Harry.

The boy smiled and Zayn didn't want to stop whatever it was he was saying, because it meant Harry would've smiled for longer, would maybe even laugh a little. Harry said one of the bags' names was Phoebe, which prompted him to name five other bags, which made them both laugh at how unoriginal they were. Zayn felt his lips curve and he knew his eyes crinkled when he smiled like that, but he couldn't not, especially since Harry was right there, laughing with him, making Zayn laugh in the first place.

It was like Zayn was comfortable around Harry since the get go, which sounds as just about the craziest thing to Zayn's ears, but it doesn't mean it's any less true.

//

Zayn isn't new at this, so he knows he shouldn't be smoking a cigarette so soon after, before he even drinks anything substantial to replenish his fluids, but he still reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket for his _Marlboros_. It's a weird feeling, as plain as that, losing half a pint of what keeps you alive, what makes you _you_. Zayn blows a thick wave of smoke up in the air, his thumb finding its way to his chin – a tick he can't seem to get away from. Zayn also can't seem to get away from a stiffening tightness pulsing right under his ribs. He doesn't have his own family here and the closest to it that he's managed to procure has other plans and is probably enjoying this happy holiday.

“Hey.”

It's enough for Zayn to raise his head, bringing him back and making him feel as a deer caught in head-lights. He smiles.

“You on foot?” Harry asks, juggling the muffins and bottles in his hands.

“Mmm,” Zayn stomps on the bud and steps forward to lighten Harry's load, blowing out the last of the smoke. “Bus actually.”

“I can give you a ride.” It sounds easy, the way Harry says it, as if they've known each other for more than half an hour – as if they know each other at all.

“Um, yeah, sure.” But maybe Zayn wants easy for once.

//

There are a couple of things Zayn does not do. He never leaves dirty dishes in the sink. They make him nervous, as if plates and dirty glasses have the innate ability to make him feel guilty for disregarding them for days. Zayn also never goes against his before-bed ritual: brush teeth, toilet, wash face. Every night. Never different. He always takes the same route from his house to the bus stop and another from the bus stop home – never varying, it's just the was it is. It could be said, Zayn'd like to think, that he's a man of habits, a defined concrete way of doing things, set rituals and all that. But it could also be that he likes having control, feeling as if he's the one making all the decisions. So Zayn doesn't quite know why he gets in Harry's car and buckles himself in, agrees when Harry suggests they get something more filling to eat and the courage to change the radio to his favourite station, because he never gets into stranger's cars. Zayn never really meets new people, or he doesn't by himself, he needs someone to introduce him and he isn't a big fan of filling dinners either, because he has a harder time falling asleep and it's not effortless to begin with. Before Zayn was able to comfortably sit on the bus and not fret about being spoken to by a complete stranger, well,... that's still a work in progress.

But it's probably just Harry and the way he smiles at Zayn as he starts the car and drives off.

//

“So where are we going?” Zayn remembers to ask, as he's still staring through the passenger's side window, looking at Brittingham Park again.

“I know this great Pizza place uptown?”

“Hmm.” Zayn looks at Harry then, sees how Harry is keeping his face towards the front window, with his eyes skipping over to Zayn. He's smiling at Zayn and it's this strangely familiar smile, kind and unintrusive, really easy. “Would you– I think have a better idea.”

“Yeah?” Harry turns to look at him, his smile stretching. “Shoot.”

“I'm craving fries and a cheeseburger.”

“So drive-through?”

Zayn smiles at Harry, because it is easy and this does feel simple, no matter how weird and out of character it might actually be.

“Perfect.”

//

“How can you eat that?”

“What?” Harry drags out around a bite. “It's delicious.”

“It's absolutely disgusting. You're gross.”

“Hey,” it sounds insulted, but Harry's eyes are fond and he keeps on dipping the edge of his burger into his cup of ice cream undiscouraged. “You haven't tried it and you have no idea what you're missing, so shut up.”

“Fine. Fine.” Zayn reaches over the half-empty containers and goes for Harry's hand. Gripping around Harry's wrist, Zayn dips Harry's burger into the ice cream cup the boy's cradling between his thighs and brings it to his mouth, Harry's hand and all. He chews and moves his tongue around, tasting and letting his mouth get accustomed to the feeling of mushy vanilla flavoured bread with lettuce, mayonnaise and beef. “Oh yeah, it's official.”

Harry jumps of joy, showing teeth. “You like it?”

“You really are gross.”

 

They park at the drive-through, not bothering to drive any further away because even if the muffins were okay to keep them occupied as they waited for their order, they were more appetizers than anything else. Harry declaring his car food compatible, they get busy with filling their mouths with burgers and fries, ice cream on the side.

Before Harry manages to make up him mind between the double burger or the classic cheeseburger and then apple pie or ice cream, cola or sprite, Zayn has the whole menu memorized. The poor girl stuck working the drive-through on Christmas Eve took their order and disappeared from the window, leaving them with a couple of minutes to spend.

“What's your last name?” Harry asks, as Zayn sighs and sinks further into the seat.

“Malik.” Harry's car was cold, the air condition set to low, but Zayn didn't actually mind the cold for once, the brisk air keeping him from curling up and nodding off as they wait. “What's yours?”

“Styles,” Harry lowers his voice, narrows his eyes and puts on his best smirk. “Harry Styles.”

“You mean Harry Ridiculous Styles?” Zayn snickers. He's finding it hard to be his composed and in-control-of-his-feelings-self around Harry, the boy who seems to have a permanent smile on his face.

“It's Edward actually.” Harry says as he dips his burger into the ice cream, as soon as got his hands on the food. “Harry Edward Styles.”

“Has a nice ring to it.” Zayn hums the name under his breath, feeling the letters form on his tongue, but not quite making it past his lips.

“Mmm,” Harry chewed with his index hovering in front of Zayn's face. “I'm gonna say that you're name is Zayn Malik and that you are...” It was new, watching Harry who knew nothing about Zayn try to figure him out. The scary part is that Zayn hopes he wouldn't be able to do it. “I wanna say something important, like a CEO or no, maybe you own your own company, but it's not that big? Am I close?”

“Managing curator of the State Street Gallery actually.”

“See, I knew it,” Harry exclaims happily, biting at his burger.

“What about you? Employed at the hipster flower-child factory?” Zayn laughs, because he has to be spot on.

“No,” Harry frowns and pouts, which is officially Zayn's favourite expression of his. “I'm a lawyer.”

“You're a what now?”

“Hey,” Harry warns. “It's not that far fetched. I'm good at what I do.”

“And I don't doubt that,” Zayn raises his hands and turns to face Harry. “It's just that with your sheer shirt and tight jeans, not to mention that awful fedora, I can't really picture you in a suit and tie all serious like.” Not that Zayn didn't want to picture Harry in a nicely fitting black suit with a narrow black tie, maybe a briefcase in his hand, or no, a cigar would be much better.

“Stop picturing me in a suit, thank you.” Harry laughs. “Perv.”

“It's a free country,” Zayn jokes, shaking his head as he unpacks his pie.

“Maybe you'll get to see me in one,” Harry says quietly, but not enough so for Zayn to miss in and perk his ears up, blushing with the idea of Harry putting on a suit for him. “If you behave, that is.”

It isn't quite as awkward as Zayn hoped it would be. When and if something goes over smoothly in his life, Zayn doesn't trust it – how could he? Life isn't rainbows and there has been more rainy days that those of blissful sun or carefree winds. So when he looks over at Harry and sees how Harry's grinning with the disgusting burger in his lap, face shining with the low glow reflecting from the drive-through's neon sign, Zayn doesn't want to trust it.

“Where do you live?” Harry asks, and it sounds like a side question, like something he should've known already.

“Up on Morrison Street, by the lake.”

The boy turns to smile at Zayn. It's light, an easy, simple smile that, as far ad Zayn can tell, doesn't have much meaning behind it. It's just a smile and it eases something in Zayn.

“You?”

“The apartment building on Washington Avenue,” Harry shrugs, the smile slipping away and turning into something different, contorted. “My father's firm owns a couple of the apartments and since I work for him...” It sounds like an excuse, a rational reasoning as to why Harry is able to afford to live there. “I don't like it though.”

Zayn frowns. “Why not? It has a private fitness, private pool,... It's fancy.”

Harry shakes his head and his shoulders slump a little – something Zayn shouldn't be able to notice. “It's not home.”

And Zayn could relate. His house is lovely with its warm colours and big windows. The backyard was the reason he chose it in the first place, but it isn't quite home. His mother has never cooked in his kitchen and Yeser's never come to check the place, evaluate if it was good enough for his only son. Lovely, but not home.

“I mean,” Harry goes on after a pause Zayn gave him to think, because the small frown between his brows gave Zayn a feeling Harry wasn't quite finished. “I'm never there as it is, with the work and everything,” Harry waves a dismissive hand. “But I just never settled there.”

“There's nothing wrong with that,” Zayn feels he has to say. “I don't see my place as home either you know? At least not yet.”

Harry smiles at him again. He does that a lot. “I want chocolate now,” he says around that smile, gathering all the empty containers from his Zayn's laps. Without a word, Harry jumped out of the car and dumped their trash in the bin. Walking back to the car, Zayn found himself smiling as well. The way Harry walks, with the unnecessary sway to his hips, cock first and his feet dangling awkwardly in the air between each step was as ridiculous as the whole situation. And Zayn didn't want to trust it, because life, his life, has never worked like this, but he can try to trust Harry.

“Chocolate?” Zayn asks as soon as Harry sits back down.

“Yes.” Harry nods in the affirmative, buckling himself in as he smiles and turns the key in the ignition.

//

“What about ice cream?”

“You _just_ had ice cream.”

“So?” Harry's look of incredulity was enough to make Zayn shake his head and start for the freezers – and if it was enough to make him snicker a little too, no one had to know. It was infectious, the was Harry just seemed to _be_. And it was easy as well, for Zayn to follow Harry's smile with his own, even if smaller and a little less blinding.

“What flavour?” Harry taps at his chin, his eyes narrowly aimed at the hefty array of ice cream the convenient store had – which was also conveniently still open. “I already had vanilla, so that's out, and I'm not feeling chocolate... suggestions?”

Harry wasn't wrong. Chocolate's out of the question and vanilla is too plain in Zayn's opinion, doesn't fit the moment. Harry isn't vanilla, but he's still something classic. Strawberry, or any type of berry for that matter, is too pink and too sweet, even if Zayn's teeth were beginning to ache because of those dimples that seemed to be a constant in Harry's features. Cinnamon-apple was too complex and homey, lemon too clean-cut and Zayn never honestly liked _Rocky road_.

“What about...” Zayn trails off, scanning the selection again when a green container catches his eye. “Mint chocolate chip?”

Harry hums as if thinking it over when he's already reaching for the sliding door. “A hint of chocolate, fresh and it's perfect!”

Zayn can't help but blush. Harry has a hint of something special, like he was keeping a part of himself close to his heart, and he seems to be a breath of fresh air in Zayn's life.

//

After Harry suggests they drive back to the drive-through parking lot, Zayn mumbles that he really is unoriginal.

“Well, come on then, where can we go?” Harry says, waving his hands around the car as they stop at a red light. It's obvious he's waving at the absence of everything really. There's not a single person walking down the street and since they left the convenient store, they did only pass a handful of cars.

It's dark out, probably pass the time Zayn thought he was gonna be home, cuddled underneath a blanket with a book, the tv on low as background noise to his aloneness. Instead, he's sitting in Harry's car, who also happens to be a half-stranger at best by this point and it's surreal. It's not something Zayn does, not ever.

“What about the lake?” Zayn turns to look at Harry, to try and see what he thinks before they boy has a chance to voice his opinion. As Harry's brows pull together, Zayn thinks he's missed the mark by a mile, but the almost frown is quickly followed by another smile of Harry's.

“The lake it is,” Harry smiles. “How come your ideas are always better than mine?”

“Because I actually think before I blurt words out of my mouth?” Zayn asks around a chuckle.

Harry gasps as he checks the road is clear. “I think before I talk,” he defends, badly though, because he snorts as soon as he says it. “Yeah, okay. That's a lie.”

“It's good though,” Zayn keeps his eyes on Harry as he watches him concentrate on his driving. “You don't overthink.”

“Sometimes I wish I'd think more.”

The sudden confession is enough for Zayn to avert his eyes and rather focus on the road too. Harry's a strange thing, Zayn's come to learn in the last couple of hours. It's like he's an open book, advertising himself with a bright cover and a picture of how the main character is supposed to look like, the plot written in excruciating detail on the back, leaving nothing out and in turn, quite frankly, ruining the book before you even have the chance to open it for yourself. But then you do, because you can't ignore it sitting on your shelf for more than a blink, and it's nothing like what the summary said it was going to be, full of twisted metaphors and ending with that kind of cliff hanger that makes you want to scream. And Zayn probably would scream, because he's never learnt how to deal with being left in suspense of what's going to happen next.

“I get myself in, let's say, shitty predicaments,” Harry says as he looks over at Zayn then back on the road. “And I've been told my whole life that I should just do what's expected from me, you know? It sort made me feel that I don't need to think to be able to please people. At least not in the way they want me to, so...”

“I like it,” Zayn doesn't need more than a second to jump in before Harry's able to continue. “It means you're honest.”

And it makes Zayn feel better about everything that Harry says, because he knows Harry didn't need to string his words together in a certain way, so that they could mean more than they do, which is a much needed break for Zayn. He doesn't have to decrypt Harry's words like he usually has to everyone else's, even his own.

“Thanks,” Harry says, and if Zayn would have to guess, he'd say Harry blushes a little at that.

//

They drive past his house and a little further down the road, until they reach an empty parking lot, where Harry drives right to the edge of it, so that they're parked right above the water. Zayn grabs the plastic bag at his feet and starts dealing out the chocolate bars that Harry had studiously chosen for himself, the ice cream and the two spoons.

Once Harry has a spoon in hand, he makes grabby hands at Zayn, which Zayn freely interprets to mean he'd like the ice cream before the chocolate, which, okay.

Zayn holds the freezing container between them as they both sink their spoons in, one after the other, enjoying the light mint melting on their tongues in the pleasantly clouded night. The moon is high above them in the sky, lurking behind clouds and waiting to shine through, and it's comforting with how the grey clouds light up the sky too, puffy and luminous.

“It's nice,” Harry mumbles around a mouthful of ice cream and _Snickers._ “I thought I was gonna spend today alone.”

“You really can't eat just one thing at a time, can you?” Zayn says instead of entertaining the idea that he was meant to be alone too.

“But it's better this way,” Harry whines. “Look, try it. You'll see.”

Zayn ducks back and away from the chocolate that's being shoved in his face. “Oh no, I'm not falling for that again,” Zayn laughs.

“Fine,” Harry scoops up some ice cream with the last piece of his _Snickers_. “I wouldn't share with you anyway.” He brings the piece close to his mouth and sticks his tongue out to catch a slow drip of the mint before he licks at his lips and looks up at Zayn, catching him staring right at Harry's mouth, which –,

“How come you don't have any plans for Christmas?” It's the first thing that pops in Zayn's head.

“Mmm,” Harry hums with a raised finger, chewing intently. “Didn't want to give my parents the satisfaction. It's time I do things for myself, I think. You?”

“Same,” he shrugs. His mom called him yesterday, kindly asking him if he'd please stop being stupid and come home for the holidays, but Zayn had politely declined and said he already had plans. He's never lied to his mother so openly before.

It's easy, revealing layers of himself, even if they're mere dents into Zayn's carefully built wall that's been protecting him for so long. Zayn has a feeling that Harry's safe, that he wouldn't use those dents to punch a whole right through. It's still at the back of his head though, how this doesn't just happen. Zayn doesn't just meet someone and feel this comfortable with them, it's not the way he works, period. But he knows that however much Harry smiles, that no matter how bright his eyes get when Zayn happens to say the right thing, he's thinking the same.

But it's okay, because they're in this together, both sitting in Harry's car, and it gets even better when Zayn complains how his hands are now cold from holding the ice cream and Harry takes both of Zayn's hands in his, no preamble, no nothing.

“Why'd you hold the ice cream for so long?” Harry says, holding their hands close to his mouth, so that his warm words swoop over Zayn's skin, making him shiver. Harry sees it, because he brings their hands even closer, blows a steady stream of hot air right in between their palms, and Zayn can't stop staring. The stark contrast that's more prominent with how their fingers are interlaced, twined together to keep the soothing warmth there or how Harry's hands are relatively bigger than his own, is all he can focus on.

Zayn manages to tear his eyes from how Harry's hands cover his completely for long enough to catch Harry's eyes. He was expecting to see Harry be immersed in the sight of their palms, for him to not be able to look away either, but Harry's looking at him, as if Zayn's face is an answer he's been searching for, like Harry's seeing him for the first time and Zayn can't not.

In the moment, Zayn didn't have to think and complicate what he was doing to the point where he'd stop, thankfully, because as soon as his lips graze teasingly and unsure over Harry's, Harry's sighs and leans into it, pressing his lips against Zayn's.

It's smooth, the light drag of their wet lips as they kiss lazily, as if it's their thousandth kiss, familiar and comforting. And then Harry parts his lips, enough for Zayn to tentatively slip the tip of his tongue along Harry's bottom lip, tasting the chocolate and the mint still there, sweet and fresh, like a clear winter's night. But Zayn had only so long to appreciate it, because Harry moans as soon as he slips his tongue past the boy's lips.

 

It's something else entirely then, more purposeful, just _more_ with the pressure in Zayn's stomach building as Harry lets his hands go to tangle his fingers in Zayn's hair and tilt his head _just so_ – just so Zayn would moan too. Harry's a good kisser, doesn't use too much tongue, doesn't push too hard, but doesn't pull away either; just right. It's something to get lost in, something that makes Zayn forget about everything else, his mind running on empty air filled with the feeling of Harry's tongue running and curling against his.

But Harry does pull away. His eyes closed, Harry's lips are curving a little as he breaths in so slowly, Zayn can see how his chest expands with the intake of air. And it's more peaceful to watch than the kiss has been, this pleased, content small barely there smile that Harry hasn't shown Zayn yet – a part of Harry Zayn guesses not everyone gets to see.

“You live close right?” Harry still doesn't open his eyes as he begins to speak.

“Yeah,” Zayn nods, not that Harry's able to see, but he's thankful, because he's still nodding as he continues. “Up the street.”

“Can I – Can I come over?” Harry opens his eyes. “Would that be okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, definitely okay.” Zayn's breathless with it, with Harry wanting to come over, with Harry possibly wanting to kiss Zayn a bit more.

//

It should be funny how Zayn's lock has never given him any trouble up until the moment he has Harry hovering over him, draped over his back with his hands roaming up and down his sides like he's carefully touching Zayn's skin and mapping out every part he wants to explore further. It should be funny, but it so isn't, Zayn wants to cry.

“Fuck, finally.”

“In a hurry?”

It sounds like a tease, but Zayn's first thought is that it can't possibly be, but as he looks over his shoulder with a carefully kept blank expression, just in case it isn't, Harry's smirk tells him otherwise.

“Maybe?” Zayn teases back then, because he's allowed, because he doesn't really know Harry and Harry doesn't really know him and they might not ever see each other again, so he teases back.

But the way Harry stares at him from the doorway and the way he closes the door and stalks over to where Zayn is standing in the middle of his spacious living room, the way Harry mumbles, “Good,” under his breath makes Zayn skin run hot as his spine prickles with goosebumps.

It's an attack really, the way Harry grabs his sides and brings their chests together, making Zayn lose his breath. It's a mean attack, because Harry knows what he's doing when he doesn't kiss Zayn immediately after, as Zayn thought he would. Zayn leans forward to catch Harry's lips, but Harry sways backwards a little, enough to avoid Zayn's try. Zayn does it again, but again to no avail.

“Come on,” Zayn hums when his lips land awkwardly on Harry's cheek. It's not what he was aiming for.

“I'm right here,” Harry whispers under Zayn's ear, his breath burning his skin and piercing right through it.

“Harry.” It sounds too much like a whine to be coming from Zayn, because Zayn never whines. He's a strong minded individual that can hold his own in any given situation – except when it comes to Harry apparently.

Harry shushes him as his hands run down his back, feeling how Zayn twists in his hands a little, and stop right at the edge of his jeans, raising his layer so that his thumbs come to rub over Zayn's hip bones. “Where's your bedroom?”

Zayn whines again as he closes his eyes and bites at Harry shoulder, what he thinks is a telling sign that he won't be able to handle whatever Harry has planned. Zayn knows himself that much. But he still starts walking backwards, towards the open door.

Zayn's bedroom is humble with a double bed covered in navy-blue linen and a dresses Zayn never really uses, his clothes spread over the majority of his bedroom's floor. It's not much, but it's all his and his mother has never made _this_ bed, which makes him feel accomplished enough to lead Harry right over to it, his own back facing the bed.

Zayn brings them to a halt right as his knees hit the edge of it, his teeth still sinking into Harry's smooth skin at the intersection of his neck and shoulder. He tastes like cologne and musk, and Zayn never wants to stop licking at his skin, because he's never tastes anything better, anything like it. But Harry still takes a step away, making Zayn straighten his back and stand by himself, which really isn't that smart, because under Harry's gaze, he can feel his knees giving out the slightest bit and he doesn't know how long he's gonna be able to keep standing like that.

Zayn feels under inspection, on display, like Harry's taking his time with running his eyes from the top of his head and over his eyes, holding Zayn's gaze for a second before he moves lower and focuses on his mouth. When Harry licks his lips, his tongue dipping and moving over the swell of his bottom lip, Zayn shudders, because he wants to do that, wants to be able to replace Harry's tongue so badly it hurts. Harry's eyes only move lower though, down Zayn's open jacket and past his stomach.

“Take off your shirt,” Harry instructs, but Zayn doesn't move, to engulfed in how wrecked Harry sounds when Zayn hasn't even had the chance to come close to his mouth – not really. “C'mon.”

And then Harry's pulling off his own jacket, dropping it carelessly on the floor behind him. Zayn can't do much more that to follow suit.

When they're both standing opposite each other in only their underwear, Harry finally steps closer. He comes right up to Zayn actually, and pushes at his chest, once, so that Zayn tumbles backwards on his mattress, losing another breath because of this incredibly confusing and irritating tease of a man.

“Mmm,” Harry hums as he lowers himself over Zayn, his knees next to Zayn's hips, mouth immediately at Zayn chest. “What do you want?”

It sounds like a question, like Harry wants Zayn to list every single thing he want Harry to do to him when in reality, the list is endless. Zayn wants everything and he wants it right now, no matter how childish that makes him sound, because Harry is everything. Kissing over the lips he has tattooed above his chest, licking at the Arabic scripture and lapping, rolling his tongue over Zayn's nipples is everything, but Zayn want more – he wants all of it.

“You,” he's able to say, though it comes out more as a moan, which Harry probably expected with the way he's relentless, his mouth encircling Zayn's nipple as he bites at it until it hardens. Zayn arches his back as best as he can with Harry bracing his weight on top of him, but it's enough to feel how hard Harry is against his stomach. “Oh fuck, you, you, you.”

It's like the word is on repeat in his brain, registering every variation of 'you' that his mind can still comprehend, because the way Harry's started to move his mouth down his torso might just make Zayn pass out.

It's been so long, an eternity since his body's had more attention that his own hand was able to provide, and it feels like it's too much, his body ready to explode if not come in the next second, but Zayn knows it's not enough and he wants it, wants all of it.

He lifts his hips once Harry sinks his fingers into the waistband of his underwear, helping Harry slide them off in one swift movement until he's naked and completely bare – ready for Harry's careful observation and loving it.

“You look so good,” Harry says as he sinks down so that he's kneeling on the floor, his head right between Zayn's thighs, and Zayn doesn't think he's ever seen anything like it – anything as beautiful. “So good,” the praises keep on coming as Harry bites at his calf, then below his knee, at his thigh and then up, up until he's kissing so close to Zayn's dick Zayn really will explode.

“Harry,” he forces out, unable to say much more. Harry shushes him again as his fingers move to Zayn's thighs, lifting them up and spreading them apart and it's – it's – “Fuck”.

Harry groans in turn, but Zayn barely registers it, because Harry's tongue is on him, licking a long, wet stripe from his hole and up to his balls, mouthing at Zayn's tense skin like he won't get the chance to do it ever again, like it's the first and last time he'll be able to do it, to taste him, when Zayn is more than ready to keep him forever, to make Harry stay where he is for as long as he wants.

“Fuck, you're so –,” Harry cuts himself off as he licks over his rim again, rolling his tongue around it, over it, dipping it past the clenching muscles Zayn has no control over anymore. Harry keeps mouthing at him, getting him wet and ready, when Zayn feels his fingers, the drag of Harry's fingertip against his sensitive skin. Harry doesn't move, just joins his finger with his mouth, sinking it in, making Zayn moan and bring his hands into Harry's hair, pulling on it as hard as he can, because he won't be able to take much more of this.

“Harry, Harry,” Zayn speeds to say, his thighs shaking with it, with how Harry feels inside of him, the stretch of it when Harry adds a second finger.

Zayn pulls on Harry's hair to bring him up for a kiss before he knows he's even doing it, needing something to distract himself with. But Harry goes easily, doesn't protest with how Zayn's handling him now, not that he could, because the way Zayn pushes himself up into the kiss leaves them both breathless.

He can feel how hard he is, leaking on the side of his stomach with every push and every pull of Harry's fingers, every crook and curve of his wrist. Harry traces his tongue from his mouth to Zayn's neck and lowers his body on top of his, his fingers stilling inside of him with a steady burn pulsating through Zayn's skin.

“Can I fuck you?” Harry says and it sounds so needy, so desperate, that it makes Zayn's dick painfully twitch.

“Yeah, c'mon.” Zayn starts grabbing at his sides, spreading his own legs further apart as Harry pulls his fingers out, wincing slightly at the emptiness they leave behind.

“Are you – Can I?” Harry asks, jerking himself slowly as he's kneeling on the edge of the bed now, his eyes focused on Zayn's again.

 

When Zayn left his house in the morning, leaving to sort out some of the paperwork at the office to pass the time before he went to the Holiday Drive, he felt like he had at least an idea of how his day, if not life, was going to go. Zayn had a semblance of who he was and what he was willing, wanting to do. But that was before a curly-haired boy smiled at him for one chair over, before this confusing stranger asked him a small favour and before he felt Harry's mouth leaving marks over his hot skin. It was before Zayn realised his life had a little unpredictability left, that he wasn't as boring as he thought himself to be. It was before Harry smiled that small smile Zayn's taking as his own, because he doesn't want to think who else Harry's shown it too – not that it matters, because Zayn made it happen, so he's claiming it, rightfully so. It was before he felt himself nodding his head and whispering steadily, “Yeah, yeah,” because Zayn's never been more sure about anything in his life.

 

Zayn let his arms spread over the mattress, holding onto whatever he felt under his palms first, when Harry leaned on the underside of his thighs, pushing his hips into the mattress as he lined himself up, his tip catching on Zayn's rim. He let out a slow exhale through his nose as he closed his eyes and pulled his lip into his mouth, ready, open and ready to beg for it if Harry didn't move in the next second. But Harry did, carefully, easing his hips forward as Zayn continued to breathe slowly with it – with the stretch, the burn and the filling sensation he's wanted to feel for as long as Harry parked in front of his house.

It's everything, it's more, because the way Harry went from bossy, instructive to the point it made Zayn hard and ache for Harry's touch, Zayn has to make himself relax, breathe through it. But Harry bottoms out and Zayn can finally open his eyes. Harry's right above him, hovering over Zayn's face and waiting, his hips waiting patiently against Zayn's thighs.

Zayn cranes his neck and kisses Harry, as he wraps his arms around Harry's broad back, fingers sinking into the tense muscles Zayn wants to lick and taste and bite at, so that Harry would have marks of him, red and purple reminders that he did have Zayn that first and last time – that Zayn gave himself to him, because how could he not? He kisses Harry filthily, opening his mouth against his and catching Harry's tongue with it. The only sound ringing in Zayn's ears is the slick sound of their mouths and their breathing, Harry whimpering silently against his lips as he's yet to move. And Zayn nods then, nods as he licks into Harry's mouth before he settles back against the mattress, his hands gripping at the sheets as Harry pushes at his thighs again.

There's no preamble, no warning or lead to it, because as fast as Harry pulls back, he pushes back in, bottoming out again and again and again. He's so focused, his eyes concentrated on the way his dick looks, disappearing in and out, rolling his hips, pushing in as if on the brink of breaking down. And Zayn lays there and takes it, takes every push Harry has to give with his own hips, meeting Harry in little lifts that make Harry hit his prostate spot on every time.

“Fuck, so tight,” Harry moans as he closes his eyes, tipping his head back. “So tight, so good.”

Once Harry slows down and redirects his speed into steady rolls of his hips, Zayn feels himself blur, feels how he's just there, right there, right where he wants to be and it makes his skin glow. His hands can't find anything to hold onto and his mind is a mess of every feeling he could possibly be feeling and his skin is on fire and Harry keeps moving, keeps pushing in deeper, faster, each push pulling Zayn closer and closer, until he's there, _right there._

“I – I,”he's breathing out, feels the words rip from his lungs as Harry grabs him, tugs at him painfully slow. “Fuck.”

It rolls through him, like a wave of every feeling that ever existed while a complete numbness takes over, his teeth biting into his lip until he feels nothing and everything altogether. Zayn feels himself shake with it, his eyes closing on their own accord as he comes over Harry's hand and onto his stomach, hot spurts slicking Harry's hand as Harry fucks him through it, fucks everything out of him until Zayn feels as if there's absolutely nothing left, as if Harry took everything he had to give, but Zayn can't stop, keeps giving because he's still numb and it's still everything.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” follows as soon as Harry releases his grip on Zayn, shallow erratic thrusts moving Zayn's listless body up and up, Harry's fingers sinking and bruising his thighs, but it still feels so good, it's not too much yet, so Zayn just lies there as Harry groans and stills, until they're both spent and breathless with it.

 

They lie there for however long, Zayn doesn't bother with counting the minutes pass them by, he doesn't bother with anything really, because even just Harry's unmoving weight on his body feels nice and comforting, like maybe it's not over just yet.

Zayn imagines it takes strong willpower and a lot of strain for Harry to get up and pull out. It makes Zayn wince and frown. He can feel it, can sense Harry's eyes on him as he feels the wetness dripping over his thighs, getting slicker with each passing second he keeps laying there, and he'd love to move, would love to go clean himself up, but Zayn – and for what has to be the first time in his life – doesn't care. Harry does though, because he's soon kneeling on the floor again and Zayn almost panics, runs away, when he feels Harry's gently cleaning him off with what has to be one of their shirts.

“Thanks,” he breaths, because he doesn't feel like talking just yet, when Harry lies down next to him, both staring at the ceiling.

“Thank _you_.” Zayn can hear Harry's smirk and he smacks him at his side for it.

“What now?” He has to ask, thinks it's the least awkward way to approach their situation.

“Is it okay if I stay?” Harry says after a beat, turning to face Zayn, and for once, he's not smiling from ear to ear, not smiling at all. Harry bites his lips and Zayn knows it's as foreign to Harry as it is to him. “I don't feel like going to my apartment tonight.”

It's Zayn's turn to bite his lip before he gently kisses Harry, a chaste kiss he wants to say, “You can stay as long as you like,” with, hopes it says at least half as much.

“Up,” Zayn says instead.

“I though we weren't moving?”

“We're not sleeping on these sheets. Come on, up.”

//

Strictly speaking, having someone pressed up against his chest and wrapped in his arms, someone with a broad back and stronger hands than his own, isn't necessarily new to Zayn, because he's had that before – twice. But he's never had curls brushing against his cheek and his bed has never smelled of something so sweet, Zayn can't help him smile – not this mix of it.

However much Zayn's wanted it, he's never had the chance to wake up with someone in his arms on a Christmas morning.

“Hi,” Harry whispers, bringing Zayn's hand to his lips and kissing his palm, before he wraps his arms around it again, like he's been holding it as he slept.

“Hey,” Zayn's voice strains with disuse, so he clears his throat and tries again.

Harry chuckles. “Your morning voice is hot.”

Zayn blushes. “Why don't you sound all croaky?”

“Dunno.” Harry shrugs and turns in his arms, and there it is again, that bright eyed smile Harry throws into the world as if he doesn't have a single idea how it looks – no idea how it makes Zayn smile too. “Merry Christmas.”

Zayn chuckles quietly, feels his lips stretching from ear to ear, a mirror of the boy in front of his eyes as he leans forward to catch Harry's lips with his own. “Merry Christmas.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like, take a listen to Blood bank [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bpFUc8ABDMQ) .
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://itwasallaboutzarry.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (English ain't my first language, which isn't an excuse, but I'd love it if you could point out any mistakes you came across so that I could go fix them.)


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